


Interlude VIII

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [71]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, False Accusations, Heaven, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Scandal, musings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 07:01:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10871526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Doctor Watson has Problems. Very Severe Problems. Fortunately he also has Sherlock.





	1. Chapter 1

“I am sure”, God said, somewhat testily, “that somewhere in human history, there must have been an equally well-matched and equally emotionally constipated pair as our angel and this human. But in over five millennia of civilization, I cannot recall any such instance to mind!”

“I cannot believe that they have known each other for thirteen years”, His wife sighed, “and yet they have not yet actually, you know. 'Known' each other!”

Her husband looked at Her.

“In the Biblical sense”, She added unnecessarily.

“I dictated most of that bloody book”, He grumbled, “and they still managed to mess it up! I know full well what you meant, dear heart. I just thought that after all this time in a human vessel, our littlest angel would have been overcome by his feelings for the good doctor. He does have them, but he is too noble to act on them. It is Most Tiresome”

“Maybe he needs a shove?” His wife suggested.

“Such as?” He asked. She smiled mischievously.

“Well”, She said, “Rather than subject our hunter to the wiles of the green-eyed monster, why not try our scruffy angel?”


	2. Chapter 2

_[Begin narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes]_

I would have been a poor detective indeed if I had ignored the increasing number of warning signs concerning my relationship with Watson. Once I had become aware of my talents and resolved to use them to bring justice where I could, I knew that in so doing I would make many enemies, often of the sort to whom the ending of a man's life was some trifling inconvenience to fit in between luncheon and a trip to the barber's. Hence the odds of my making old bones had always seemed remote, and I had counted my blessings that I was not the sort of person to incur emotional attachments (or as my tactless brother Bacchus called it, a bloody cold fish). 

Watson, despite my best efforts, contrived to get in under all my defences. One of the things that drove me to anger over his earlier works was the reaction in some quarters that he was merely the scribe who reported my humble achievements to the masses or, as one newspaper reader most crudely put it, 'along for the free ride'; I made clear my fury to that excuse for a reporter in person, demanding and obtaining a retraction. How dare he criticize my Watson? 

Another charge often levelled at my medical friend, particularly from his own brother (who really should have known better) was that he was a master of denial, and often so far up that particular river in north-east Africa that he was practically in Æthiopia. This was unfair, especially as the same accusation could, with even more accuracy, have been levelled at my good self. I knew that I was getting ever closer to my friend, I knew that my feelings for him were beyond what I deserved and such as he could never reciprocate, and I knew that it would all end in trouble. And still I did nothing. 

Then, with no warning, trouble came.

+~+~+

Shortly after our return from the Isle of Man, Watson was called out to treat one Mrs. Eurydice Aston-Waye, widow of the then recently-departed Conservative member for parliament for Derbyshire, Mr. James Aston-Waye. My friend told me about it that evening; the patient had thought herself pregnant by her late husband, which with her being fifty years of age would have been surprising (and given her appearance and general demeanour, even more surprising), yet Watson had had to take some pains to convince her that she was not. I knew her from the newspapers; she was one of those large, overbearing women, whose acquaintance I was glad to have never made.

Everything went to Hell in a handcart the next day, when 221B Baker Street was befouled with the arrival of one Mr. Jason Tucker, Mrs. Aston-Waye’s solicitor. Apparently the woman was claiming that Watson had 'fondled' her during his examination the day before (he told me later that in all honesty, he would sooner have 'fondled' her pet bulldog!), and that she was suing him for assault! The idea that someone as noble and righteous as my.... as Watson would do such a thing was at first laughable and then horrifying, and it was one of those rare times that I actually lost my temper. Like Bacchus that terrible time that Mrs. Harvelle had run out of coffee, the vile Mr. Tucker fairly sprinted from our rooms, and I took great pleasure in pursuing him some way down Baker Street! The litigious bastard!

Although I immediately contacted my mother and secured her support in setting the family's expensive legal team against the foul Mrs. Aston-Waye and her vile legal lap-dog, I was deeply worried. That we could disprove the case against my friend, I had no doubt, especially when Miss Charlotta Bradbury called on me that same day, having heard of our troubles. She offered her services free of charge, and I owed her much for the kindness. No, it was the damage that I knew this would do to Watson's reputation. Even when he was inevitably cleared, it would be like his friend Peter Greenwood's brother Rory, losing clients because the snide newspapers would doubtless mutter something along the lines of 'no smoke without fire' (and if any of them did, they would be my legal team's next target!). Rory Greenwood was now once again a successful doctor, but it had taken him years (and some subtle assistance from myself, as he was brother to Watson's friend) to get himself back to where he had been before the insinuations against him had started, and I could not bear the thought of Watson suffering as long as that.

One brief moment lightened the gloom; I learnt that Mycroft, in what was presumably a fit of stupidity excessive even by his 'standards', had voiced his disagreement with Mother's supporting me, and she had promptly boxed his ears! When Bacchus also visited one time and looked like he was about to raise the subject, I mentioned that the Incident of the Under-Housemaid might just be 'accidentally' passed on to Mother that same day, and he wisely refrained from commenting.

It took under twenty-four hours for the efficient Miss Bradbury to discover that the vile Mrs. Aston-Waye had tried this ramp when her first husband, a bank clerk, had died, and had successfully ruined another doctor, gaining herself (and her legal partner in crime) a considerable sum in the process. I demanded that she both quit the country and sign over the bulk of her wealth to her only daughter Anne, to be run by independent lawyers on the latter's behalf for the next fifteen years until she reached twenty-one, or else I would ruin the harridan and take everything she had. Anne was already being raised by Mrs. Aston-Waye's sister Mrs. Woodbridge, as her mother had thus far shown little interest in her.

The newspaper coverage was, unhappily, as bad as I had feared and Watson, who had stopped his surgery work for a time, grew steadily more depressed as the days passed, even when his tormentor agreed to my terms. Unfortunately there were no other major stories or scandals to distract them, so poor Watson's name remained on or around the front pages for far longer than I had hoped. I decided that more direct action was called for, to save the man that I rated higher than any other.

+~+~+

“Do you remember me mentioning that there may be a case Abroad that would require my attention?” I asked one morning over breakfast. 

He had just handed me half his bacon as usual, but his eyes were worryingly dull and lifeless, and I knew that he had still not started taking patients again. He nodded, not even looking up from his paper. 

“Would you be able to come with me?” I asked.

“Of course”, he said unhesitatingly. “Where is it? France?”

“The case involves us travelling to Heligoland, in the German Ocean”, I said. “I am sorry. I know you do not like sea-crossings, so we could go via Dover and Calais if you would prefer. That would cut the time spent at sea by half.”

“What is it about?” he yawned.

“I do not know as yet”, I admitted. “Bacchus wanted to check that I would be happy to go and join him before telling me all the details. He only telegraphed me his request this morning.”

I should say at this point that it always warmed me, probably rather more than it really should have done, as to how annoyed the lounge-lizard was whenever I insisted on bringing Watson into any case. And judging from the faint beginnings of the smile on his my friend's handsome face, he knew that full well. 

“Is it that serious?” he asked.

“Obviously he knew that I would not go without you”, I said firmly. 

The smile widened. For the first time in weeks, I actually felt happy.

“I would be delighted to go”, he said. “A change would do me good.”

I had no idea when he said those words, as just how our relationship would indeed be changed by our own “Grand Tour”. For good.....

_[End narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes]_


End file.
